


Guns don't fire themselves

by jason_todds



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: I'm sorry lately ive been incapable of writing anything that isnt angt, M/M, Post CA:TWS, but the ending is hopeful? Ish?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 16:39:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3903358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jason_todds/pseuds/jason_todds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd never considered himself to be the sum of his parts before, but now. Well. Now he’s a gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guns don't fire themselves

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this on an iPhone, I'll go back over it on my laptop later, all and any mistakes are mine

He’s caked in blood. Bucky’s never been one for metaphors, left that artsy shit to Steve. ( _Little things like this surface sometimes, he never realises he’s got them till they're starting to fade away again_.)

But this, this is different. He can feel it. Catching in the grooves of the arm that isn't really his, he’d never considered himself to be the sum of his parts before, but now. Well. Now he’s a gun.

Something strikes him about that particular comparison; _Guns don’t fire themselves._

And that thought, it sticks. Sometimes, most times, he can't keep track of all the quicksilver thoughts darting through his head. But something of that, of the concept that he, though a killer, stained with blood and choking on ghosts (mostly his own), was, _is_ , in some way a victim. It stays with him even when he can barely remember how to breathe without being told to. He hates that, a little bit. The sound of it, ' _victim_ ', the lack of autonomy. The level of control he had over his own body is exemplary, but It's whats in his head, the things that tell him to move, to eat, to sleep, to relieve himself; to do the most basic things, things that living creatures do, because for so many years all he's been is a weapon, that isnt his. The arm, he's made that his own. But his head is still rife with debris and collartal damage and voice upon voice upon voice. He can't tell singing from the screaming anymore. 

And then, after running from shadows, most especially his own, Steve looks at him. Big doe eyes that he’d never been able to say no to. Asks him to ‘come home’.

It’s a hell of a thing, Bucky (He's not even sure when he started calling himself that, it's barely a name, but perhaps that's appropriate) can't help but think, to be _asked_. 'Cos it is a question. He knows that if he chose to turn away, to slide back into the murk of the world he'd become so familiar with, Steve'd let him go. And that's really what steels him. The light hurts his eyes a little when he fumbles back into it, but he'd always been kinda used to that, the shadow Steve'd cast, even when Bucky'd been able to comfortably use his head as an arm rest, was expansive. He'd looked into the sun so many times, but you don't get used to that kinda thing. Your eyes never adjust. 

He wants to sigh, wants to fall headlong into Steve’s arms, even while part of his brain is still screaming at him, **_MISSION, MISSION, MISSION._**

But he doesn't do anything. His body doesn't know how to move without being ordered to.

So he speaks, throat sore and rough from disuse. People sometimes talk to their weapons, coo to 'em, call 'em petnames and go easy on their triggers. But a gun is a gun and it's bullets ain't kinder for gentle words.

He swallows convulsively. 

“You were my mission.” He manages, finally. He remembers the last time he said that, too. He doesn't know _why_ it'd different now. But he knows it _is_.

He pauses, meets Steve’s eyes fleetingly. They're warm and open and sad enough that Bucky’s hands twitch, wanting to fix this, wanting to rip apart whatever made him look like that. It should scare him, feeling something so strong over the look in some fellas eyes. Mostly he just feels kinda blank. But ‘kinda blank’ is more than he’s felt in a long time, and Steve brings something out in him that screams, even louder than **_MISSION, MISSION, MISSION._**

It screams: _**PROTECT, PROTECT, PROTECT.**_

“You were my friend.” he continues.

Steve flinches a little. “I _am_ your friend, Buck.”

It’s his turn to swallow, his voice sounds almost as rough as Bucky’s.

“And now you're my mission.” And isn't that rife with layered meaning.

Bucky looks away, his metal hand clenching and unclenching.

“I’m not the guy you knew.”

Steve smiles, and a thousand memories flicker through Bucky’s head. He can’t grasp any of them yet, but they're there.

“Guess I’ll have to get to know you all over again.”

**Author's Note:**

> why do I do these things


End file.
